From shadows I come
by Spirit of dawn
Summary: Another one of the 'HousesofHealing'variations my personal interpretation of this episode please R&R a lot finally finished
1. Fire walk with me

First and above all the usual disclaimer: none of the characters bound to appear here, are really mine, but Tolkiens

This is my first step in writing something like fan-fiction, so as you can imagine, reviews are more than gladly taken (especially since I have to excuse myself for spelling and grammar mistakes in advance – I'm not a native english speaker, so there might be flaws in me using that language to write this story – I can but try)...

The story will (I think, since I know my tendency to get diverted when writing) more or less cover the Houses-of-Healing episode – maybe later on there will be a bit of stuff of my own but frankly I haven't decided yet....

Fire walk with me

The last battle on the dawn of mankind...

Fire and blood, and screams and pain...

Fire walk with me... walk with me and send me to hell

Moving without knowing, he felt his sword meet resistance, felt it moving through something, a body falling dead to his feet, one more... just one more

He turned to face destruction in flame, as people became schemes and spectres, dissolving in the endless pits of fire around him.

He saw the end coming, knowing with the certainty, that only dreams can bring, that it was his fault. Heart wrenched in terror, he watched as everything became fire... then blackness

Then nothing

A vast plane not existing, as he was drifting alone, not feeling, not seeing.

His soundless screams echoed and found no answer.

__

"NO!"

He awoke, not quite being able to keep the whisper from leaving his lips, from echoing through the room like a ghost of a forgotten time. Reality took its time to get hold of him, only reluctantly the dream receded, spitting him out from the utter nothingness to the earthly darkness of his room. He could feel his heart beating in something, that very closely resembled panik as his eyes darted around in the futile attempt to find either salvation or doom from the nightly horror.

By now, he should know better...

The hour of the wulf...

The darkest hour of the night, the hour of specters and nightmares... he had known it before.

Maybe this was the price. His step had been steady as he was marching into a battle he knew, he could not win. Neither the battle for Gondor... nor the battle for the acknowledgement he yearned for most.

But seemingly he was doomed to let his father pass with the cold glare he had given him upon his depart to be his farewell bidding forever. The chance was gone... and Faramir, now Steward of Gondor, fearing and despising the need to take this office now in lack of another, a better man, would not bring it back, as much as he wanted to.

It seemed, that he should face death alone, in the grey nothingness that his dreams promised.

__

So be it. 

He brought his trembling hands to his face, carelessly wiping away raven strands, that stuck to his forehead covered in sweat. The dream hat not been worse than many, but maybe it was the situation that unsettled him even more, that brought his defences down in an instant.

Is this the strength of the Stewart of Gondor? How poor and doomed a people we must be then...

Peace would not come that night. He lay awake, his eyes trying to pierce the dark. He fixed his eyes on the eastern sky, that could be seen through the window, clouds hanging over the mountains talking of doom.

It was the end of days...

He remembered the dream, and nothing, that surrounded him, neither the silence, nor what he could discern in the east was made to make the dream go away..

Fire walk with me...

We will be friends, ere the end comes


	2. Fearing the cage

What do you fear?

A cage...

And a cage it was indeed, a cage that seemed to hold nothing but fear and grief.

How does a laughter taste?

Eowyn did not know, but she did not care either. Such things were long beyond her grasp.

Grey were the days, even if there was a sun, burning ferociously in the sky as if to laugh at the toils of men and at the fears of Gondor. Grey were the days, even if there was the sky, so brilliantly blue, blue like cold steel.

Everything was ashes to her, and sugar tasted like poison.

He was gone. The hand that had drawn her back had left the city, gone on a quest already lost before he even set foot out of Minas Tirith.

And my heart and spirit goes with you...

It felt like hoofbeats in her blood, the desire to run, the desire to fight, an urging, that could barely be kept at bay. The day seemed like an endless sea of meaningless breaths, a cage, with golden bars, but yet a cage, to keep her from flying to her doom.

The pounding was hard to bear. Denying the wishes of her deepest heart was not easily to be taken. He was gone, and so was her brother, facing equal death before the Black Gate..

And what of Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan?

She stayed behind, useless. Great deeds she hat wanted to fulfill and great deeds indeed lay behind her, but only now, that the witch king lay slain and every mouth in this city told the story of the wild daughter of Rohan she realized it had not been quite what she yearned for.

For still, pain was there, as strong and overwhelming as before, if not even more.

Her eyes strayed to the window watching the northern plains, knowing that somewhere, behind hill and stone, there stood the golden hall Meduseld, all but deserted for now. The king long dead, the prince gone to face his and their destruction. And the Lady...?

Empty... 

Do not cry for your Lords, Rohan, do not cry

For darkness will come and take us all


	3. To Feel

__

Like a flower made of ice, wild and strong, in the middle of the storm, a hint of beauty....

He halted in his stride, his glance straying back to the houses despite himself, stone houses, made to look soothing but cold yet... cold houses shielding a cold flower. 

Slowly he resumed his stride once more, one step at a time climbing the stairs that would lead him up on the eastern wall of the city.

__

For in the east, all of our hopes and fears lie....

Dark clouds were hanging over the so much feared border to the black eastern lands of mordor, clouds hanging over the mountains, that would no longer protect them from the hordes of orcs that were swarming the land.

He half turned to shield his eyes from the wind that was strong up here on the wall, lowering his gaze to half-wonderingly look at his own hands. The bruises on them were all but healed, small injuries only, bearing no importance compared to the shadow he had weathered.

They were the hands of a warrior, clearly bearing the marks of a man adept with the sword, bearing the marks of battles uncounted, and another one maybe dawning, far on the horizon... Sooner than he liked – and battle always came to soon - these hands would maybe defend this city again, when the final stroke of doom would hit the world of men in a killing blow.

Maybe he would live to see the end.

He lifted his gaze, looking to the eastern wall of the Houses of Healing, wondering through which of those windows she would be spying east, as some inexplicable voice told him she would. He could not see her, not from where he was standing, and yet he tried.

__

Shadow lies on us still...

Her words were echoing in his ears, every phrase dancing through his spirit as he stood in silence with only the wind to keep his company. He remembered her eyes if nothing else, her eyes and the expression that so well mirrored his own feelings. For both of them had stopped to care...

Faintly he mused on the impression he must have made on her. As far as he could tell, his facade was holding, his display being the same as always, the same air of what he hoped was some kind of calm, of friendliness even for he had no desire to place himself above those that clearly were not beneath him. 

But nothing ached like smiling...

And yet he had smiled, when she was there. And yet, he had felt, when she was there.

__

You feel to much, you think to much

Words of his brother, kindly spoken, and now even more valued since the brother in question was long gone. Yet he had stopped to feel the moment his father had wished him dead, had replaced all with the graceful void of certain death. How sweet it had been, for one moment... to feel... 

Even if it might have been the pity for a young lady, a beautiful bird in a cage, desperadely trying to spread her wings and return where she belonged... so cool, so sad...

Even if this pity hurt in itself

The man who would soon be the stewart of Gondor turned his back to the threatening darkness and descended the stairs into the gardens again. His stride was long, als he passed between the trees and flowers, trying not to look at the Houses, mostly failing in the attempt. There were questions on his mind.

And Faramir had never been one for long leaving his questions unanswered....

__

Yet, while the sun still hangs in the sky, maybe it is worth the hope...


	4. Running

She ran

Her gowns flowing around her she ran blindly, her good arm keeping the skirts from getting in her way. Her quick steps echoed through the house in which she had been put, not caring, whether she would wake anyone, not even caring if her injury at last would show the mercy on her to have her faint, fall into graceful oblivion once and for all. The urge in her blood was strong, the feeling of being trapped, trapped as if she were never able to breathe again. The stone walls seemed to close on her, and the stone city of Minas Tirith was not made to lessen that feeling.

Eowyn felt the drum of horses' hooves singing in her blood, felt the free being that she truly was spread its wings and cry out in despair as it found a cage closing in around it.

She had never been one for prisons.

She felt dizzy as the strain of her quick pace threatened to overwhelm her. She was far from healed and every step, every ratteling breath told her so, even if she tried hard not to listen.

She let her skirts drop down again to have her sound arm push open the doors to the garden, hardly noticing the metallic clang with which the wing she had so violently torn open thundered against the walls of the house. If there had been one soul still asleep in the house, it would be awake by now, and Eowyn did not care. She fled down the few steps to the lawn, almost tumbling in the attempt and finally halted her flight, throwing back her head to deeply inhale the cool air of the night.

This was better. The chill of the night, the freedom of not feeling the stone walls around her suited the shieldmaiden better, a faint memory of the endless plains of Rohan, endless, soothing, whispering to her soul of a freedom that was not for her.

The garden was nothing like it... but closing her eyes and letting her imagination do its will helped a little.

"I am sorry that a window to the east was not able to ease your concerns, mylady."

She flinched visibly at the soft spoken words, immediately cursing herself for it. Despite the fuss she had been making, she would have never imagined the other inhabitants of the house to do more than maybe shake their head behind her back – something which, even if she despised such behavior, she could not have cared for less at the moment.

Obviously she was wrong, and once again she had made a fool of herself in front of the one person she would have preferred not to convince of her own childishness.

The Stewart...

She knew he was standing in her back, although she could not tell for how long. His kindness humiliated her in ways she never would have thought, and once again he had managed to catch her off edge. There had never been anything but kindness and pity in his eyes.

And both of them she truly despised.

She took a deep breath, then another, before she straightened her back, bracing herself for the battle to come.

"Yet I have to thank you for the arrangement mylord, for I prefer to face what shadows my path."

She kept her voice cool and casual, taking another moment before turning around.

He was standing next to a tree shadowing the entrance to the Houses, leaning against it in a calm gesture that seemed to describe him quite well if judging from what she had seen of him so far could be trusted. He averted his gaze as she spun around, looking aside to a bunch of flowers. A smile she could not exactly place ghosted around his lips.

"I am sorry", he said softly with a hint of pain, which led her fury vanish in a matter of seconds. Angry on herself for letting him unsettle her again, her words came out harder than she maybe intended.

"Don't be."

He accepted her snarl without so much as a wink, only a hint of irony added to his weary smile.

"I will try, my lady."

For a moment she wondered what had driven him out here. There were shadows beneath his eyes and something in the way his shoulders were set told her, that he kept the same cruel self-control she tried to impose upon herself. Only he seemingly was doing a better job of it.

"How come I see the Stewart of Gondor out in the gardens at this time of the night?"

Suspicion and guilt fought a war in her voice, none of them gaining on the other. He lifted his gaze to look at her again, even if she could not fight the impression, that all she saw was a display for her, and not the real Faramir, whoever this might be. She angrily bit her lips. Deception had ever shadowed her path, and one had been especially adept in this.

One that also had a way of appearing when she yearned for solitude. She felt hatred flush through her like a river and saw Faramir shrink back at the tone in her eyes, even if it had not been ment for him, and even if he had not made a single move.

"You were hardly to be overheared", he answered, his voice still calm and even a hint of humor playing around his lips that was lost on her at the moment. He looked back to the flowers again as fury once more gained on her, an apologising smile flickered on his features. "And I fear, that none of us gives in to sleep easily these days..."

She nodded, for once not shooting back a reply. Instead she turned away, impolite, but unable to fight the urge to look up to the endless skies, the ultimate promise of a freedom denied for her. Her heart beat faster as the hoofbeats took up again their endless sound, the feel of a ride never ending, the thundering of Rohirrim gracing the plains to dance in battle. She closed her eyes.

"I cannot breathe within this city..."

More to herself the words were spoken, as he had vanished from her conciousness, wiped away by the thundering hoofbeats, and as soon as she heard him draw a sharp breath behind him, she felt the deep urge to slap herself for giving so much away.... of him for being there, for that matter.

"It saddens me to hear this." There was a catch in his voice that made her turn and she found him looking at her eagerly. "I wish there was something I could do..."

"You can, but you wouldn't", Eowyn reminded him, less hard than she felt for something in his expression told her to be careful and she followed her instincts.

"In this you are right." He nodded, once more letting his head drop as if in thought or regret. "All of us follow the paths chosen for them, Lady of Rohan. And as the bitter medicine you swallow is that you cannot depart to the Black Gate as you wish, rest assured,that the bitter cup for me is, that I can and will not grant you this one wish."

He lifted his gaze again, and beneath the weariness and sadness was a strength, that she already had seen before. A strength, that would not yield, not before her, not before anyone. And again she felt humiliated by this strength, by his never wavering commitment in what he had to do, no matter his liking. Not a virtue of her own, she realized with bitter scorn.

"Come with me, my lady." Careful still was the tone in his voice – no wonder, for every word of him had brought him nothing but scorn from her, a scorn that was not meant for him. "Let me show you something."

She followed, softenend for a moment by the regret of having him treated injustly, as he led her through the gardens to the wall. A withered staircase wound up alongside the wall to make it possible to climb up and she followed the Stewart's silent, steady step.

Having arrived the top of the stairs, he took a step to the side to give her room to see what they had come for and awe let her stop and stare for more than just a moment.

A cold wind took up and toyed with the long unbraided blond strands as freedom for a second took hold of her.

She was up, so high up on the walls and far below her, she saw the endless plains and hills stretching to the horizon. No stones to be seen in her gaze, no houses, no restraints. The wind sang of freedom and her blood answered ferociously.

Hoofbeats coming from afar...

She breathed deeply, once more closing her eyes, giving herself in the the wind, letting it soothe her, kiss her like a friend, still the bleeding inside her if only for a while.

Only what seemed hours later she became aware of Faramir standing beside her. There was a whistful smile on his face that seemed to hurt her as well as him. For an instance she felt the urge to soothe him.

"Thank you", she said softly. "For a touch of freedom..."


	5. Not to dream

Ouf... sorry for not updating for what must be ages...  
  
This was quite a tough chapter to write - I am really no good at writing about hobbits, so Merry was some kind of a challenge. I would appreciate anybody criticizing me so next time I can do better...  
  
@Picture Girl: Sorry for the spelling mistakes ;) I try to check but correcting english texts does not come THAT easily (too bad) Anyhow, great that you like the story  
  
@everyone else: thx for reviewing, I will try to keep updating a little bit more regularly, still.. writing in english is painful sometimes ;)  
  
greetz  
  
Shadow  
  
"Tell me about... the Lady of Rohan."  
  
Merry lifted his head, surprised, removing the long pipe from his mouth to eye the man next to him. So he finally had mustered up the courage to talk about why he had come to see the hobbit. They had been talking at length about what had happened at Amun Hem, about the death of Boromir, and even though it had been plain through Faramirs desperate attempts to maintain his composure, that this was not a topic he was at ease to talk about, the notion that this had not been the only reason for him to come to see Merry never really left the hobbit.  
  
He blinked at the Steward through the smokes of his pipe, the sunlight's bright beams making his nose tickle. They were sitting in the gardens, the grass warm under their feet and hands, as a soft wind rustled through the trees shading the place they sat.   
  
"Eowyn", he mused, resting his hand on his knee. He was unsure of what to tell to the Steward that kept looking at him with the same, stern expression that could not completely mask his interest.  
  
"Well, she is a lady as there is no other in our time", he answered, since this was what described Eowyn best, the simplest words he could find to tell the man who she was. There was the ghost of a smile on Faramir's lips that made him wonder why he was asking the question.  
  
"That I think can be assured..." The catch in his voice made Merry frown slightly, as Faramir's gaze strayed eastward, then to the bushes behind which the Houses lay.. the Houses where Eowyn surely was at the moment.  
  
Merry felt unsure of what to say. The Steward seemed eager to have an answer to his question, but he did not know what answer to give him. He would not feel well betraying the lady's secret, thoughts confided to him on the eve of battle, under the shadow of what seemed almost certain death.  
  
He must know that notion, too, from all that he had heared about the Steward. The darkness had almost covered him as well, as Gondor found itself on the eve of destruction.  
  
And all of a sudden, Merry knew where to begin.  
  
"She has known nothing but shadow for a very long time", he said thoughtfully. "She has seen Rohan fall under the shadow and could not do anything to hinder it, while the poison of Saruman consumed her land."  
  
He sighed, recalling events that he had not even witnessed, although he had all but relived them through Eowyn's eyes.  
  
"I think, maybe it is the waiting she can not take."  
  
It seemed to Merry, that there was a small laugh from his companion, bitter though it may have been, the first expression of emotion, that he was freely allowing himself.  
  
"Who does?" Faramir asked softly, watching the eastern walls and thus bringing Merry to do the same. He could not help thinking about the Black Gate, could not help that everyone that might represent home in this city so far from the Shire, was right now facing the ultimate force of Mordor.He could not help agreeing with Faramir, although there was no bitterness in that emotion but merely fear and a sadness difficult to bear.  
  
"No one, I guess", he answered, then shrugged again, taking another breath of his pipe. "But Eowyn has spirits, my Lord, as surely as I live and breathe. She is as brave as any man among the Rohirrim, and she should have had the same right to defend what she loved as anyone else. She did not waver, and she proved everyone right. She had to be there, at the battle before this city, even though nobody would have her do this. She had to hide herself, desguise herself as a Rider of the Mark to be able to get here, to be able to fulfill what she felt she had to do." Merry's eyes were glittering, as he passionately spoke of what he had felt himself, the utter despair of not being able to ride to battle when everyone else did, of feeling the helplessness that Eowyn - or better - Dernhelm - had rescued him from. "She spared me that. She had the strength to do what she thought was right and the kindness to see me and do what I could not do alone."  
  
Faramir nodded, slowly, as if deep in thought. Merry bit his lip, wondering, whether he had given away too much, but before he could dwell on that, the Steward spoke again.  
  
"She is very proud, is she not?"   
  
"You can be sure she is!" This question was more than easy to answer for the hobbit, and a smile clearly showed on his features. "She took many blows and still she is standing, proud and strong." Admiration clearly in his voice, Merry stomped the grass with his bare foot. "And even when she thought, she could go no more, she meant to go fighting, not fading..."  
  
His voice trailed off, as he found Faramir looking eagerly at him, something in his eyes told him clearly, that he had the Steward's full attention. At the same time, he wondered, if he had not given away too much, and so he avoided the man's glaze again to look to the houses, a shrug only badly masking that he felt, that he had talked too long. For at last, the notion in Faramirs expression had told Merry, why this interview had begun in the first place.  
  
The Steward had begun to fall for the Lady of Rohan, whether he already realized it or not. And Merry was not sure, if Eowyn would approve of such an attention. She seemed even colder since Aragorn had ridden away, as if the knights had taken part of her with them to die before the Black Gate of Mordor. Faramir was on the verge of losing himself to a ghost of a lady, but there was nothing, that Merry could have said, since proud and stern and in pain the Steward was, too. He could not have talked Eowyn out of looking to Aragorn for salvation, and he could not keep Faramir from trying to see the little hope that could be found in the face of the Lady of Rohan.  
  
Still... the situation seemed to be as painfully hopeless as the whole war.  
  
Pessimism had never been Merry's domain, but at the moment, anything other was hard to find. He sighed as he looked upon the Steward, mustering up his courage to say, whatever it was that came to his mind. Faramir gazed into nothingness, lost in his own thoughts, which made it easy for the hobbit to assume a light tone.  
  
"One might think you are questioning me, my Lord, for what sake, only the Valar may tell."  
  
There was a smile on his lips that seemed almost earnest, that made Merry think of somebody caught sneaking.  
  
"Indeed, Master Perian", he said, a touch of humor in his voice. "I hope you will excuse me for being so bold."  
  
"Oh, I would not worry, if I were you"; Merry answered lightly, taking another breath of his pipe realizing that the weed had gone cold and ashen. "We hobbits love to talk about our friends. In fact, back home in the Shire, we hardly talk about anything else..."  
  
He raised his brows, astonished, though Merry could not tell whether he was feigned. Yet his voice betrayed amusement.  
  
"Well then I should deem myself lucky, that I came to ask you about her..."  
  
Merry laughed.  
  
"You surely should. Whatever your people excel at, gossip is surely something of great tradition in the Shire..."  
  
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She did not come...  
  
Disappointment washed through him freely as he finally gave in and went back to the house. Merry and he had been waiting for Eowyn for quite some time, unless nightfall had softly enwrapped the city of Gondor as the houses dreamed, hoping for another sunrise.  
  
Whatever her motives were, she had not come.  
  
And Faramir was shocked at what this did to him. He had not realized how much he had hoped to see her during this day. This was a vulnerability that he had not seen coming.  
  
One of his main goals had always been to avoid pain. He was too well a target already, too well a target for his father's spite, too well a target for his own reproaches that would come often enough.  
  
The iron door to the houses felt heavier than it was, as he pushed open one of the wings. The corridors, lit with flickering candles that spread a warm light, welcomed him together with the silence of the halls. The picture could not have been a better mirror of what he was thinking, what he was feeling.   
  
He felt the loneliness right to the bone.  
  
He began the painful walk back to his room. He did not count much for some hours of sleep, but maybe it was the respect for the healers' work, some sense of duty that told him he should at least try and find some rest.  
  
"Mylord?"  
  
He froze in his step, ever so slowly turning around to the source of the voice, somewhere in the corridors behind him.  
  
She was there.  
  
Standing in the candlelight, she looked less cold, less like a flower made of ice, reminding him more of a ghost in the darkest hours of the night. He felt a small smile find its way to his lips and thought he could see its reflection in her features, although he was not sure, whether this was not due to the unsteady light.  
  
"Lady..."   
  
He bowed curtly, taking his time to look for words fitting to say to her.  
  
"I thought you were long abed already."  
  
"Well, as a matter of fact I am not."   
  
Again the shrewd answers he had met so often yet. It hurt, but he decided not to show.  
  
"The healers will not approve, I fear", he answered carefully, taking a cautious step towards her.  
  
There was a flicker in her face, a notion he mistook for rage first, bracing himself for another harsh reply, until he realized, he was wrong.  
  
"Neither they will of you, my Lord."  
  
The soft wink of companionship made his smile get wider, as he half-absently marveled at the ease with which her emotions mirrored in him.  
  
"In this, you might be right, Lady. We are both under the same command, I deem."  
  
She nodded.  
  
"Yet it can bring release to spread one's wings now and then."   
  
Her tone was measured and Faramir wondered, what she was actually trying to tell him. Anyhow, he could not help, but agree, even if he had never been much for overstepping the boundaries imposed to him - this would not have been overly wise concerning Denethor's temper.  
  
"It can... at times."  
  
She nodded.  
  
"Yet, maybe it would be wiser if you and I again did as we were commanded, since if we intend to break rules at will we might as well ride out to the Gate to meet the friends we still miss."  
  
He dropped his head, trying not to show that the arrow had hit, as he nodded.  
  
"I can not speak against your words", he said softly, half already turning around. "I bid you goodnight, my Lady."  
  
"My Lord..", He stopped in his tracks, yet not turning around.  
  
"Will you be walking tomorrow?"  
  
He smiled, though she could not see him, and nodded, feeling the hurt lessen at the implications of her question.  
  
"I surely will."  
  
"Then maybe you will find me in the gardens, if you wish", Eowyn offered in a voice, that seemed calmer than everything he had ever heared of her.  
  
"I would be delighted", he said, managing to keep his voice calm. She nodded.  
  
"Very well then. I bid you goodnight, my Lord Steward."  
  
Faramir continued to his room, watching the flames dance along the walls as he passed.  
  
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The Houses of Healing were a calm place during the night. Silent healers and dancing candleflames watched over the empty corridors, that linked the parts of the houses together. The sky was clear and moonlight shone into the rooms, painting a pale, tender light onto the patients.  
  
Faramir slept, his face bathed in moonlight, his breath calm, as he found rest in oblivion.  
  
Because for once, he did not dream...... 


	6. First day of Spring

_Why do I have the feeling that there are a great number of spelling mistakes in this part that I just don't find no matter how often I reread it? Writing it just went to smoothly..._

  


_@Alaize: Wow, that is a compliment! I confess that every time I try to write a chapter I start by reading some english novel for an hour or so... just to get into the flow (and by the way – I had to look up the word 'thaw' in a dictionary, didn't know it ;) )_

  


_@PictureGirl: Now I do feel flattered, since I think there are quite some better stories around but thanx anyway_

  


_@everyone else: Thanx really for reviewing...I hope you enjoy the next chapter_

  


  


_Have fun_

_Spirit_

  


  


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_In every fear there is peace_

_In every storm sleeps a crystal..._

  


  


  


_How long since they have been gone?_

  


His eyes scanned the horizon, knowing it was in vain. The king and his army were long gone, far beyound the sight of even the White Tower of Gondor, whose proud glitter surely had bidden them a final farewell before the shimmering tip had vanished behind them.

  


_How long since the last march of Gondor began?_

  


He began to stride in the morning sun, ten steps to the next barrier on the wall, twenty to the other side. Thirty paces marking the corners of his world.

  


_Will we know, when you fall, Elessar?_

_They must have passed Osgiliath by now... must have crossed the Anduin._

  


His thoughts treaded the paths he knew so well, paths, that had been his life and his destiny for so long. The path through Ithilien, the Crossroads. He wondered briefly, if they had yet passed Morgul Vale... whether the place, that surely had been the doom of two small hobbits would also put an end to the desperate quest of the King Elessar.

Ten steps to the end of the wall.

He stopped and took a deep breath. For a brief moment he wondered, what it would be like, when the end finally came. Whether it would all end in fire, in destruction and flame, foreboding the age of Mordor, that would reign upon Middle-Earth, or whether everything would just... stop.

He hoped to face the end steadily, he had said, and so he hoped indeed, but still, every hour he spent in the false peace of the gardens of the Houses of Healing made him fear the end more.

  


_Will you grant me a quick death? Or will I be doomed to live, as I have been, will I be doomed to see how everything around me dies...?_

  


"My lord Faramir?"

He froze, torn out of his thoughts and welcoming the disturbing voice more than he would have anything else. For a moment, he closed his eyes, grateful that she was there, grateful she had kept to her words. The blackened fear wrenching his heart turned a paler shade of grey, as the smallest of smiles touched his lips.

"Lady..."

He turned around to see her. Eowyn stood in the pale spring sun, her hair unbraided, toy to the wind that ever blew up here on the walls. The threatening darkness had already captured her gaze, as she was staring out to the East, to Mordor. Carefully, he stepped to her side, hoping not to shy her away, but if she even noticed, she gave no hint of it. In silence they stood for long, neither of them being able to ignore the clouds, but both of them feeling, that even though they had been left behind, this was the only way they could be facing equal darkness as those, whom they cared for. Standing on the walls of the White City, the Steward of Gondor and the Lady of Rohan would not yield to Mordor, not until their last breath was utterly spent.

"Let us go back to the gardens."

Her voice breaking the unsteady silence between them would almost have made him flinch, but there was no harshness in her words, only a notion of fatigue, as if standig up here had spent what strength the lady had left. He nodded, automatically in a polite gesture offering her to step before him, and she did, her walk hardly causing any noise on the withered stairs. He followed at a calmer pace, only to find her sitting on the lawn, when he finally reached the bottom. 

This part of the gardens was secluded, awayt from the carefully tended lawns and bushes, a little hint of something wild, something pure. He doubted that anybody came here often. The way was a dead end, leading only to the stairs, to the wall. And few people mustered up the courage to stand on the wall these days.

She looked up to him, waiting for him to join her in the grass, her white skirts scattered about her like the waves of a bright pool. Faramir felt himself reminded of spring, the first day of spring after an endless winter, and yet, the pale blossom of snow still so present in her every breath.

He sat next to her, even less at ease than she was, and silence fell again over their heads, but it was a silence he did not regret. Her hands moved restlessly, tucking at her skirts, impatiently wiping away strands of glorious gold, fingers playing along one another, as of in great unrest.

"Would you tell me about Rohan?"

Carefully, Faramir uttered the question, softly, even hesitating. He was unsure of whether the thought of her home would soothe or unrest her, and how she would react on his boldness. She stayed silent for a while, her gaze dropping to her hands idly tucking at a tiny twig, and when she spoke, once more it seemed all of a sudden. Her words came hesitating, as if she did not really know where to start, or what kind of tale he expected of her. In a moment of almost sarcastic clairvoyance, he realized, that he did not know either. But with every word of her tale, he knew all too well, why he had been asking. Her voice, clear and cool, at times stern as the shieldmaiden from the north, at times soft, almost halting as a flower not daring to bloom, cut through the thickets of his fears and worries, as a ray of sunlight piercing the dark.

He rested his back against a trunk and closed his eyes, letting her voice consume him whole, as he conjured the places she spoke of... the endless plains of the horselords' land, Edoras, rested on a hilltop, like the Rohirrim, proud and free, Meduseld, pride of her people, home for so long. She was not very skilled at telling tales, but there was a simple earnest tone in her voice that reached him more deeply than maybe a bard would have. In these days, the feeling of reality was precious, when the end of all things lingered over the town like a predator waiting, and real she was, and real was every word of her tale. 

Her voice faded away, as her tale drew to the late masters of the Golden Hall, and he did not press the matter, knowing and feeling the hurt in her tone. Instead he smiled, whistfully, as he opened his eyes.

"I would very much like to behold your land myself one day, my Lady."

She made a small tone of disgust, as she turned away her head.

"It has been long since your folk came to the Mark, my Lord. Is it not true that Gondor deems the Rohirrim of lesser worth than themselves, for the blood of Numenor does not run in our veins as it does in yours?"

He let his head drop. She was right - to some extent, and many in this city would agree. But Faramir had never cared much for the stupidity of self-chosen isolation, and this one time, he was not willing to take the blame for something, that did not happen by his bidding.

"No it is not", he answered, his voice still soft but the tone firm nonetheless. "None that saw the Rohirrim ride onto the Pelennor could think such a thing."

"As far as I am told, you did not see the Riders arriving." Like an arrow, her words struck, for one, dreadful moment reminding him of countless other arguments, each of which hat left him hurting and defeated. Denethor had been especially apt of turning his own words against him, of shattering his dreams so aptly with the weapons Faramir himself unwillingly handed him. He was at loss of what to say for the moment, und so he just held the gaze of the steel-blue eyes of the Lady of Rohan, knowing not, what else to do.

She looked at him sternly, a slight frown entering her features before she relieved him of her gaze, looking back to her hands in her lap. A sad smile began to touch her face, as she momentarily closed her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

"I am sorry, my Lord. I am being injust."

He felt the same smile touching his lips, relief flooding him like the tide as the ghost of Denethor passed away. He was not sure whether he would be able to find words for what she had done, for the hurt, and for the reliese, like an absolution Denethor had never given him... but she could.

"Let us not dwell on that", he answered softly, glad that his voice did not betray how much she had shaken him. She nodded, slowly only, the faintest hint of color rising to her white cheeks. For a moment, silence enwrapped them once more and this time, they did not even notice for a long time. Once more it was Eowyn, whose clear voice broke it, causing a bird, that had dared to move close to her white gowns to examine the strange color, to flutter up and away, chirping angrily at the disturber. She smiled at the sound, even as she still spoke, as a flower bravely breaching the last snow of the winter.

"Tell me about Gondor."

He looked at her, lightningstruck. It was not often, that his opinion was called, even less, that his opinion was wanted, and he had not really counted on her asking him about his homeland she obviously did not care for very much.

"My Lady?" The words were out before he could hinder them. She turned around, the remnants of her smile still on her lips, as she raised her brows to eye him wonderingly.

"Well, my Lord Stewart, as far as I can recall, I have spoken at length about my homeland to you. Forgive me if I am mistaken, for I lack the courtesy of your folk, but would it not be appropriate for you to return this favor?"

It took an instant or two for him to realize that she was teasing him. Still hidden beneath the sharp sting of her words was a hint of humor, and she had cared to show it to him. Involuntarily, a smile touched his lips, the first, open, earnest smile he had dared in what felt to be years. A soft echo of it even lighted Eowyns face, as he began to do what she had asked of him, telling her of the proud city of Minas Tirith, of the lands around, of Osgiliath, the city of music and poetry, these arts being so close to his heart. He told her of Ithilien, of the incredible, warm, flowering lands that, even though being the border to Mordor, had never lost her beauty. He told her about the strength that lay in this beauty, that the lands had never withered under the towering shadow, and he managed not to tell her that in this, Ithilien reminded him of her. Her gaze was ever on him, earnest, cool and blue, never wavering and never betraying what she thought of his tale. He continued nevertheless, letting the memories of his land consume him, as he told her of the marvels of Gondor.

"You do love this land", Eowyn said softly when at last, he fell silent. A weary smile passed his lips as he nodded. "Listening to you..." Her voice was careful, even soft, the wind daring to tear away the sound before he had the chance to hear it. ".. some, I deem, would learn to love it too."

He was at loss for words, breaking eye contact the moment she had uttered her sentence. How often had he heared, that he lacked the devotion this land needed... the fierce, rough devotion his brother always showed.

He was not used to somebody understanding that his devotion was of a different type.

And in the silence that fell, it was the smile that he could not help showing, that unsettled him most....

  


  


  



	7. Losing

(A/N)

My apologies for taking so long to write a new chapter, but it is a bit hard being on skiing vacation and writing at the same time ;) 

Anyway, I am back and even though I am not entirely convinced that I got the tuning right in the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it anyway, and I hope as well that you will tell me what you think about it ;)

  


  


@Picture Girl:

You ARE keen on making me feel flattered, right? ;) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one, too

  


@Alaize:  
Well, they sort of should end up together when I'm done with this so I have to make them warm up to each other, don't I?

  


@everyone else:

thx for reviewing, hope you like this one too

  


Spirit

  


  


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_I am losing_

_Losing the battle and losing myself...._

  


As the morning sun chased away the shadows lurking in the corners of his room, Faramir placed his hands to the sides of his window, hanging his head in defeat. Sleep had refused to come to him that night, as much as he had longed for oblivion - or even the dreams that told of doom and destruction and fire, since these were catastrophies that were not of his fault, not of his hindering, but what kept him from finding this relative peace was more of a personal shadow...

He closed his eyes against the stinging wind coming in from the east, and even though the air smelled sweet and full of spring, it seemed as though it carried in itself the message of autumn falling, slowly diminishing into eternal winter.

He knew. As much as he longed for hope, he did not dare it.

For he would not survive the fall...

  


Steps were echoing far below him, soft steps on the white pebbles that marked the pathways between the lawns and trees of the gardens of the Houses. He lowered his gaze, the window shielding him from the sight of the lonely wanderer in the early hours of the day.

Her. Of course it was her. He had known, even if he would maybe not have admitted it. The sun had not yet climbed the walls of the gardens, and so she walked in shadow, lost in thoughts of her own. A gown of soft white was playing around her form, underlining the impression that she gave, the impression of winter and cold, beautiful but unreachable as a flower hidden under a whole season's snow.

Faintly, Faramir wondered when it had been that he had become so completely and utterly lost. In his heart, he felt the end coming, darkness unescapable closing in around him, until there was no more room to breathe. In his heart, he could feel the emptiness that was only the foreboding of the sacrifices yet to come. But yet, something in him refused to yield. He dared not to name it, fearing it would flee the mere thought of it, delicate and impossible as it was, but it was there, hanging in the air like a well-woven spell.

  


_I am losing..._

_Losing myself, finally..._

  


He was no fool, of course. He had listened to Merry talking, had listened to what he had said, and - more carefully even - to what he had not.Time had made him apt at recognizing things, that were not within his grasp, and such most certainly was the Lady of Rohan.

  


_Aragorn..._

  


His gaze strayed again, looking out to the east, where, somewhere, the king of Gondor was facing doom. No wonder it was him that held the lady's affection. He had only seen the king for the briefest of moments, yet he remembered his hand drawing him back from the end of all things. He was a king, for all Faramir could tell, and never could he scorn him for being what he was. Even if this meant that the shadows would be drawing on him more closely still...

  


_And so it is I am falling... _

  


The sun had climbed the wall, finally spilling rich, golden light into the gardens. Her hair caught the glitter, shining like woven gold in the morning sun. She halted in her stride, lifting her head to the careful warmth of early spring, her statue upright and proud, head slightly tilted backwards as she exposed her face to the sun. He half expected to find dew on her face when she turned, ice being melted as the bitter frost receded but there was nothing but a pale expression of delicate calm on her features when she turned again. He faintly wondered if there was any sun that could warm her.

  


She had spotted him before he could recoil to the shadows, her brows climbing up surprisedly at the sight of him. And then, tentatively, as if not trusting her actions herself, a smile touched her lips, as delicate as early morning dew. A careful smile it was, and yet it transformed her face, frost bursting out into a full spring's bloom.

The answering smile was on his lips before he even knew about it, in this very moment knowing, why he was still hoping, still breathing despite the clouds that hung in the eastern sky. 

  


Her eyes met his gaze for the briefest of moments before she bowed her head, greeting him formally, more formally than he would have her, and yet, he answered the gesture with a small bow of his own, reflexes taking over his actions despite himself. He was not sure whether to be surprised or to scorn at the reaction, that his long years in court had formed.

  


A last hint of her smile and she turned again, taking up her stride through the gardens, leaving him to his thoughts as he slowly began to relax again.

  


_Losing myself...._

_Sweet Valar, tell me, how can something that is about to destroy me feel so right?_

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  



	8. The fabric of reality

**Yes, yes, I know...**

**I have taken my sweet time to produce an update and I confess that I have been having trouble writing this chapter. Somehow I found that writing some story around Tolkien dialogue is by no means as easy as it sounds, at least as far as I am concerned.**

**However, now I produced a version that at least I think is not complete rubbish, so I hope you will find it worth the waiting...**

**@LadyLeBeau**

**Well took some time there, I hope you like it nonetheless**

**@Earendil5**

**I was surprised that I find Eowyn easier to understand than Faramir, as a matter of fact I would have thought it would be easier the other way round – well these are the things one realizes writing ;)**

**@everyone else**

**Thanx for reviewing... of course I love any reviews I might get ;) So keep up even if you have something to criticize.. otherwise I cannot do better next time!**

**But now, enough of my chatter – enjoy the next part...**

**Spirit**

_The sun is gone_

Eowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan stood amidst the flowers of spring in the garden of the Houses of Healing, looking around and feeling the chill

_The sun is gone... for good?_

A shiver ran through her, shook her violently as she wrapped her arms around her chest in a search of warmth that seemed to elude her the moment that she looked for it. The last days had carried in them a notion of a last goodbye, a final glory before the end, and as she looked up to the grey skies, it felt as though the end had already come. It was early still, the cool morning breeze gliding through her gown as if there was nothing to hinder it, while somewhere, behind the endless clouds of Mordor, a sun was bravely rising.

If it was rising still...

She had gotten up early as she always had, not even in illness denying her old habits.

The morning sun in Rohan was full of glory, while mornings in Gondor seemed to hold nothing but woe.

She resumed her stride that she had halted for reasons she could not name. It was vain to try and find ease for her concerns somewhere in these gardens, as impatience and the cold drawing near to speak of the end seemed to be everywhere, overwhelmingly so. The silence of her own thoughts enfolded her as the hoofbeats receded, leaving her alone, bare and naked when even the last glitter of hope was gone.

_It feels like losing myself..._

She closed her eyes, if only for a moment. With time crawling by as some turtle trying to cross an endless, grassy plain, darkness had begun to gnaw on her, ever shaking her resolve. The urge of the first days of imprisonement was gone, the urge to run and race, the urge to feel the wind and listen to the sound of the ever-present hoofbeats, to join the wild ride of the Rohirrim, and if it were to the destruction of them all.

The wind toying with her soul had receded to what could only be called the softest of breezes, barely noticable against the gaping silence that was the hoofbeats having left the maiden of Rohan.

_We are the horse-lords, and riding is like living_

A dogma of childhood, broken in the last days of the world, as the maiden of the Golden Hall was lost in the shadow of a stone city. 

_And so it is I am truly dead..._

She wondered if going up to the wall to watch the plains that people here called the Pelennor fields and – beyound them – the shadow of Mordor would ease her heart but she decided against it. The pain soothed the part of her that was the rider, the part of her that longed for freedom..

But the pale bird now striding the gardens had almost given in to its prison.

She wondered, half-absently where Faramir was. He was never out as early as she had been, but it would be almost time for him to appear, to speak to her.

She would not admit that maybe he would be able to do what standing on the walls of Gondor could not, because this would leave her with the question why he was able to do so. And this was a question she felt not fit to answer.

They had spent the last days in comfortable companionship, neither intruding on the other more than allowed, and the beginning hostility had transformed to something that might be called if not friendship, then common sympathy of two souls in the same peril. It was true that talking kept the demons away, her own as well as his, if his expression when talking to her was anything to judge by.

She was honest enough to hope for him to come soon, while the cold wind running through her made her shiver. She was used to the cold, Gondor was much warmer in climate than Edoras had been, but the gowns that she had been given here were thin, fit for a lady of the court of Minas Tirith, and not for a maiden used to the sword. She could not help admiring the fine, delicate fabric of the white robe she wore, but still she longed for her finespun wool that would be better to keep the cold away.

My lady?

She froze, her arms, wrapped around herself for the benefit of keeping warm, came down to her sides and she straightened her back before turning around. She had recognized the voice at once as the one she had been, admittedly or not, waiting for, but she was not so much at ease to show him she was glad about his arrival. And so she only recognized his presence when seeing him, standing at some paces from her, eyeing her with the calm respect he always showed, an expression almost never waving, as he carefully produced a smile.

My lord Faramir, she replied, softly bowing her head to him in recognition. It is good to see you. She kept her voice formal and courteous, not to show that she really meant what she was saying beyound the demands of court. He nodded, his eyes softening ever so trifly beneath her words. I shall surely say the same, my lady.

He took some steps towards her, hesitantly, as if unsure what to do. There was a bundle of blue fabric hanging over his right arm, he held it with some care, even though he seemed to have forgotten it for the moment. Eowyn shivered as another blow of the cold northern wind caressed her with his icy breath, despite herself wrapping her arms around her chest in search for warmth.

Lady, you are cold., Faramir softly stated the obvious.

I am fine. Pride forbid her to be honest, to admit to the man of Gondor, of the people that the Rohirrim often called thin-blooded, not fit for the harsh weather of Rohan's endless plains, that the weather was also causing discomfort for her. A smile lightened Faramirs face, softly, carefully, knowing that he still treaded dangerous waters. 

Nonetheless, I pray you wear this mantle, my lady, if not against the cold, then for a pleasure of mine...

Eowyn eyed him suspiciously as he held out the rich, blue fabric.It was difficult to tell, what he was up to, although the calm manner of his eyes betrayed nothing but the soft smile, that also touched her lips. Cold it was indeed, and she had not the heart to turn him away. She had done so frequently, and the hurt in his eyes had been plain to see. Even though she was not sure about how her relationship towards the Steward of Gondor could be called, she did not want to cause him pain.

I will, then, she said softly, reaching out her hand to take the mantle. Her fingers brushed his, as she took the cloak, and from the corner of her eye, she caught an almost startled expression on his face that vanished in a matter of a twinkle of an eye. It was only shortly after, that she realized that where he had touched her, the skin seemed to carry a strange warmth of its own.

Slowly, Eowyn unfolded the mantle, startled, as its glory became plain to see for her. It had the color of deem summernight and silver stars were set around hem and throat, glittering in the sunlight, that only meekly passed through the dark clouds that hung over the city like an enemy threatening. She briefly wondered at this gift, seemingly so glorious and kingly, turning around to Faramir as to enquire the reason for this. She caught his expression of wonder, a smile that seemed to fragile for the moment, like a fleeting expression on the wind. 

Where did you get this from? she asked, intrigued. Quickly, he lowered his eyes to the ground as he so often did when talking to her, but what distance might have come between them by this gesture was mended by the tone of his voice.

It has been my mother's, once. She thought about declining the gift, as her breath seemed to be taken away at the magnitude of its significance. Faramir had scarcely spoken of his mother during their walks through the gardens, but whenever the topic had been touched, his adoration and love for her had hung in the air like an elven spell. She could by no menas understand how she had come to deserve such a gift – however, some part of her told her, that it would not be exactly wise to decline.

It was, strangely the same part, that felt honored and, stranger still, glad.

I do not know what I can say to thank you she said, instead, allowing a careful smile to touch her lips. Faramir lifted his gaze to look at her.

Just wear it, if you please, my lady. This will be... more than enough.

Hesitantly, Eowyn complied, and as the cloak softly decended upon her shoulders, a warmth almost settled immediately, driving the chill out of her bones. It truly was a wonderful garment, heavy and warm, keeping out even the wind. Following an urge she did not understand, she softly bowed to Faramir, an unspoken thanks that was rewarded with a genuine smile.

You are most welcome, Eowyn. Most welcome, indeed... He held out his hand to her, invitingly, daringly even. Will you walk with me to the walls of Gondor, my lady? Softly, Eowyn let her cool fingers settle on his, still warm from the shelter of the mantle they had been in until shortly and he led her up the stairs carefully until both of them came to rest as they had done so often, looking out over the endless plains beneath them.

Silence settled between them, a silence not uncomfortable for the company but for the coat of threat, that seemed to settle upon them as they stood there. Eowyn shivered, even under the starry mantle, catching Faramir's eye as he looked at her worriedly.

What do you look for, Eowyn, he asked, knowing that the question was vain but having to hear it anyway.

She knew he was asking not out of curiosity but for the need to hear himself speak, to hear her speak, to have their voices add fabric to the reality that was trying to tumble apart around them. She inwardly thanked him for doing what she had not archieved. Nonetheless his question brought her gaze back to the plains again, softly musing.

Does not the Black Gate lie yonder? she asked, still softly, as her thoughts travelled far away to this place of utter destruction and death, to where her brother was, her brother and... he. And must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he rode away.

Faramir perfectly knew she was right. Knowing Ithilien like the back of his hand, he had marked their progress the best he could. And still... she was thinking of him.

Seven days... He nodded, steadying his voice with a nearly inhuman effort. He knew, hoping was as vain as talking, for what she did not want to see, no words of his could bring to the light – and the Valar knew he had tried, not only with her, but also with others. Fate had taught him, that some things could not be mended and such, he feared, was the affection of the White Lady for someone that was far from her grasp... as far as she was from his. 

Everything was coming to an end...

And at the end of all things, nothing mattered any more. And thus he continued, still sorftly, still carefully, as he allowed himself the utter luxury of being honest.

But think not ill of me, if I say to you, they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Eowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.

He watched her face eagerly as the softest of frowns entered her feature. His words needed some time to thaw on her as they echoed around unspokenly between the two of them. She was not sure whether there was mockery in them, but the tone carried the illusion of real affection, an hand outstretched as she felt his gaze on her.

The far hint of horses hooves in her head reminded her of freedom, of the utter, the primordial instinct of a horse to run and flee, to face all evil and all fear with the endless thundering along the endless plains. Something in her felt the urge to give in, to spin around and flee, however, she did nothing of that sort, since the instincts of beasts are not made to rule men.

Lose what you have found, lord? she asked him, softly, feeling afraid, flattered and careful at the same time. I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. Retreating, slowly, to safer, stabler grounds, she still could not bring herself to offend him, as she usually would have done to counter such a statement. The hurt in his eyes, as much as he tried to conceal it, could be more than she could bear. She could see herself in it. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it. Let us not speak at all! I stand upon some dreadful brink and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.

Briefly, Faramir closed his eyes, exactly knowing, what she was talking about. The air seemed to be ladden with danger and fear as if all living things held their breaths to wait for tidings from the east, where all hopes and fears lay, where their destruction was as real as the blood in their vains.

, he whispered, feeling how right she was. We wait for the stroke of doom...

And as they waited, silence fell once more as the air began to thicken, began to gain substance as the cold northern wind died down, leaving them bereft of all air, bereft of all thoughts bereft of everything, that would remind them, that they were still alive. The world was breathing no more, and neither was the sun, as its light failed to kiss the lands beneath her, lost somewhere in the air and the clouds as the world hung on the edge of falling forever.

There was nothing left in the endless sea of silence, nothing real that would remind them of how to breathe, how to speak, how to live, and the only thing that still felt true was the warmth of their fingers, entwined without them realizing it, holding on to each other as the only thing of substance in the world.

And then, the heart of the world began to beat again...

It reminds me of Numenor, Faramir whispered, despite himself, his voice nearly failing.

Of Numenor? So strange, so out of place his words had seemed and Eowyn found her voice to be somewhat unsteady, as she realized that she was shivering, from cold and toil and pain.

, Faramir whispered, as if the wounded air could not bear sounds any louder than this whisper lest it would simply fall apart. Of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it. So true, so fitting were his words that Eowyn found their meaning taking her heart in an icy grip. She tightened the hold of her fingers around his, clinging on to the only warmth around her, seeking it even more, as she took a step towards him, feeling the warmth of him enter her bones, drive away the cold.

So you think that Darkness is coming? she asked softly, as she felt his intake of breath against her back, wondering what had happened for her to end up standing like this. But for once,she did not care, too close the cold was still, and too tempting, much too tempting was the warmth of his steady strength. Darkness unescapable?

, Faramir said, ever so softly, as his eyes had taken on a soft expression, looking down on her as she carefully leaned against him, hardly touching and yet, almost closer than he could bear, much closer, than he had dared to hope. She half turned to look at him and neither found the strength to break the gaze as he continued, still feeling the utter surreality of the moment, being able to chase away all thoughts and fears for now, nothing, nothing mattered. It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay, and all my limbs are light and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour, I do not believe that any darkness will endure. There was a soft trembling tone in his voice as it took on strength and intensity, his eyes still meeting hers, none of them being able to look away. She could have found the world in these eyes, in this moment alone, as she could see in there the hope and adoration that she had deemed to leave the world long ago. It came like a shock to her, the one moment of complete honesty that Faramir allowed her to see, the eager expression in his eyes that she had never seen before and would never forget. Suddenly she felt as though she knew why she was wearing Finduilas mantle. 

He took a sharp breath, as if hurt or on the verge of something he tried to avoid as it was finally him, who broke the gaze by closing his eyes. The loss of his gaze was tangible, and while she still mourned it, not truly understanding what hat happened, she felt his lips grazing her brow ever so softly, more a reverence than a kiss and yet... she thought she could feel his hands softly trembling on her own.

_As the walls of the world came down...._

And as Mordor fell, as Middle-earth began to breathe again, as the great Eagles passed through the lands proudly bringing their tidings to all shores of the earth, they dared not to breathe, they dared not to speak, since everything of it would have destroyed the spell that whispered of a gift that could not be for them...


	9. Hear me calling

The sun was shining brightly, its warm light painting slightly moving spots onto the wooden office table, slowly moving with the swaying of the curtains in the soft wind, yet failing to remove the remnants of cold from the room. Faramir, leaning back in the chair, carved and wooden, not offering much comfort, since this was a working office, not a private chamber, closed his eyes and tried to shield himself off from memories coming unbidden.

Yet, the memory of where he was, as well as why he had come here, refused to leave his mind, like a soft whisper in the back of his head, never fully abandoning him. Uneasiness did not fade, not even in the brightest of sunbeams.

Rarely he had ever been admitted to these rooms before. Denethor preferred to hold council even with his sons in the great hall, under the eyes of the memory of stewarts and kings of old, as if to remind them of the burden and the promise, that put them in the place they were now. For like Faramir, Denethor had hardly ever done anything without a purpose to it.

So this had been the chamber of quiet reprimands. The chamber, where happened what was not for the court to see. He had never spent a tear inside these walls, but for a moment it seemed as if the pain was still present, hanging like a spell in the air.

He took a deep breath and braced himself before he opened his eyes. For a fleeting instance, he seemed to catch the sight of grey eyes, a smile, careful but brighter than the sun might ever be, and couldn't help wishing she was there with him, her strength helping him stand when he was falling.

It was only this morning that he had half been released, half declared himself fit to quit the Houses of Healing. The city was bustling with every turmoil thinkable as rumor of what had happened at the Black Gate of Mordor spread throughout the city as fire would through dry wood. Celebrations filled the city as people began to believe that the shadow that had covered the city for so long might have gone for good after all.

There was much to do, since where there were celebrations and drinks flowing freely, there always was trouble, and every man capable of wielding a sword had departed with the captains. Aragorn, or Elessar, as he should probably call him, would be back soon from the Black Gate, willing to take over the city from the hands of the stewart, and Faramir would not have the city in disorder when the king came, after the stewarts had for so long taken care of Minas Tirith and the realm of Gondor the best they could.

It was his sense of duty, that had brought him here, a duty he was raised to fulfill. If his heart would have its way he would never have returned to Denethor's study. In fact, if his heart would have its way, he would have stayed in the Houses... stayed with her.

She had not given the slightest indication that her wishes lay in the same direction, bidding him a courteous goodbye as he told her of his duties, of his obligation to return to the citadel. Her smile as she had watched him leaving had been polite as well, polite and made to pierce his heart, that still felt open to her after the moment of closeness they had shared standing on the walls of the city.

But it seemed that she remained a dream, nothing more, nothing less, like a ghost, touching his soul for the briefest of moments, promising a stray of hope but not fulfilling it, when his heart leaped at the possibility.

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he leaned forward, elbows placed on the writing table, his head buried in his hands. Stripped of everything the truth was that it was no use. Dreaming would not help him now, not as routine would.

And so Faramir opened the drawers of the writing table, calling for his father's secretary and beginning to dig himself through the paperwork his father had left.

-----

__

Breathe...

Breathe, and if it pains you more than you can bear....

She walked the gardens of the Houses of Healing, step by step, taking a breath with every footfall, walking without goal and without reason.

__

Just one more... always one more...

Never look at the whole way, think of the next step, the next step only...

She did not turn around because she knew there would be nothing to see. She did not know what she was waiting for, which was making it harder to go on walking, since any glitter of hope seemed to have left far beyound the horizon.

__

I cannot hear the horses any more...

For a fleeting instant she wondered at the mood she found herself in, because, not so long ago, it had seemed as if there had been a tomorrow. But she had lost that feeling she did not know when.

__

Yes...

Eowyn halted in her stride, even stopped breathing as if the pact had been true to keep breathing as long as she kept walking.

__

I know when I lost it...

It had been about the time Faramir had told her he would leave for the citadel. It had been the hour, where the fabric of reality had taken on another level of paining intensity, as she fully understood where she was, who she was... and who not.

She was the Lady of Rohan, shieldmaiden, sisterdaughter of the king... the late king of Rohan, sister to Eomer, new king of the Mark. She was cold, stern, harsh. She had been weighed, she had been measured, and found wanting despite her deed in slaying the witch-king.

For in Aragorns eyes, there still was nothing but kind pity.

For she was not allowed to ride with the captains.  
For bitterness was her clothing and death her garment.

And what of Faramir?

She placed her hands against her temples, trying to shut out her thought.

He had left... left her alone to fall back to her own demons.

__

Where are you, friend? Can't you hear me calling?

Of course he could not. And she could not call, for proud shieldmaiden she was and proud shieldmaiden she would remain. She did not have the strength to abandon this, for if she would, she would be left with nothing. And so she would have to do without him, his support withering away as every other support in her life had. She had to rely on herself. She had done it before...

"Lady Eowyn?"

She turned around at the timid voice of a page boy, barely ten years old. His gondorian accent was heavy, more pronounced than even Faramirs, who had the tendency to overemphasize his pronounciation in the way the court seemed to approve, even though she had never gotten rid of the idea, that he tried to speak less courtly for her sake.

"Yes?"

Her temper was short, even though she tried not to make the pageboy feel it. Even the small reminder of Faramir made her feel pained.

"There is a rider asking for you." He seemed to be intimidated by her harsh behavior, and she did not feel like softening his impression.

"What does he want?"

"He... he has word of your brother, mylady. Eomer of Rohan asks you to join him on the field of Cormallen, for celebrations there are beginning."

She swung around to avoid even the boy's gaze and shook her head violently. Where Eomer was, Aragorn would be.

"Tell him I cannot."

"My lady..?"

She clenched her hands to fists, strong enough to hurt. Even the thought of going there, hearing the cheers, seeing the smile, answering the questions of her brother, seeing Aragorn in his triumph.

"Tell him, I will not." She almost snapped at him.

The boy nodded. Timidly only his voice came.

"I will."

She felt the tears stinging in her eyes as she heared him leave.

__

And so it is, I am now truly dead...


	10. And bring me home

**Almost this story was forgotten shortly before the end...**

**I read less in English, and so writing in English was mostly to tough. **

**But finally, this is it, the final chapter... not as I wanted it in the first place, but okay in its own manner.**

**Thank you to everyone for reading this, and thanks for reviewing in past and future.**

**Enjoy the final chapter**

**Spirit**

_Banners...._

_Like a river of colors in a sea of white and grey..._

_It seems as if the new day brought out all the colors that we thought lost long ago._

A whistful smile touched his lips as he bowed his head, half in a defeat that he did not understand fully, half in some sentiment close to wonder at the velocity, with which the city had gone from utter despair to a state of delirious joy. Even now, the hour of noon barely passed, strands of melodies graced the air to kiss stones and banners alike, to laugh in competition to the glorious sun, that not once had suffered the influence of clouds since the darkness fell in the east. Minas Tirith was celebrating still.

_The nightmare over, the dream begun..._

His hands gripped the cold stone under his fingers, as if he needed to feel reality beneath the waves of joy, as if this hour, that should belong to the first free breaths of life that this city had ever been allowed to take, did have no more fabric in its reality than the hours on the walls of Gondor had, when he felt the abyss opening before him.

But the stone was cold under his fingers and he shivered in the sun. There was no comfort in the strength of Gondor any more, no comfort in stone and marble. His memory allowed him the briefest hints of a warmth under his fingers, the briefest imagination of a hand taking his own, but the wind took up the notion to toy and tear, to sweep it down to the banners of Gondor, to the dancing colors in the eastern wind.

He smiled, more to himself than to anyone else, as he lifted his head to gaze out beyound the walls of the city, where, somewhere behind hills and plains, the king was basked in victory. On Cair Andros, the triumph was complete and the light was untainted, where the heros of the black gate were celebrating in glory.

He did not long to be among them. Glory had never been for Faramir, the Stewart's second son, and he had never yearned for it. And yet..

And yet his heart cried out for the banners and the tents, for the merry mixing of soldiers of Rohan and Gondor, for the place of the old alliances reborn.

_For the place, where you are..._

The words seemed ridiculous, even in thought. For surely the Lady had gone to where her heart lay, to her brother and their king, for Eomer and Aragorn...

Aragorn...

Soon the banner of Elessar would crown the White City, his banner joining those already flying in the wind, to be the purest and first of them all. And the White Lady...

_Do not grasp for things that you are not worthy of..._

He flung around, his heart forgetting for the moment, that he would see nothing but the empty office, the table, the wooden chair, bereft of all comfort, forgetting, that he, who once spoke these words, was not here to talk to him.

Still ghosts linger, while the body long moved on...

„My Lord?"

The ghosts of pasts long ago faded, leaving a sunlit room, where the daylight did not reach the farthest corners near the door, where a young page was standing at the moment, brows knitted in unwilling concern at the sight of his Stewart.

„Yes?"His voice was as steady as ever and quickly a smile was back on his face. The routine of aimability and friendlyness chased away the thoughts for a moment, leaving him glad.

„The warden of the Houses of Healing is here to see you", the boy replied, bowing slightly.

Faramir frowned but nodded, an inviting gesture almost automatically waving in the visitor.

„Yes, come please."

Not even knowing that his presence would bring back shadows... and more.

There were a lot of things he would have thought the warden to bring before him. Still, the wounds of the battle of Gondor were deep, and that the Stewart had escaped the foul breath of Mordor did not mean, that others had, too. The Houses still were full of patients, more than one of them still on the brick of death. This he knew, and he had done his best to try and make amends, using much of the city resources to tend to those still maimed from the battles. There was not much more that he could have done in so short a time, that and collecting news from parts of the devastated country to know, just how big the wounds of Gondor were.

But this was not, why the warden of the houses had come and still, he wondered if he would have preferred another reason for the unexpected visit. For the news of Eowyn brought back pain, fear and a hope he would not allow himself to grasp that left him torn, his peace of the morning shattered.

Yet, how could he not listen to the words, that spoke of torment for a lady whom he wished nothing but happiness?

„I will see to it", he replied to the warden's concerns, grave earnesty in his eyes and an unrest, that only showed in his twisting of the silver ring of his office. „As soon as I can."

_How different the world has become....._

She marvelled at the White City in colors, at banners in the wind over Minas Tirith, at the warm, eastern wind that stroke her hair in a vain attempt to chase away the bitter frost.

_Still I remain, always the same..._

And still she was standing on the wall of the city, looking over the endless plains and hills. Sometimes, she watched a rider arrive at the gates of the city, a friendly wind bringing her fragments of the hooves' clattering up to where she was standing and not caring.

_The horses are gone..._

And so was the urge for freedom, the urge for anything, als days rolled by in an endless row, never changing. She had forgotten to wish, long since forgotten to care.

_Rohan? Words in the wind...._

She could hear footfalls on the withering steps that usually brought her here, quick steps, heavy boots, as her concience registered by a manner of habit. All the visitor would see, was a white ghost in the wind, or nothing at all, so he would turn and leave her in a peace that wasn't true.

„Eowyn?!"

Something in the voice touched bitter frost, and soft call of warmth brought pain to concience long frozen. She could not find the strength to turn, but her gaze left the plains that no longer called for the wild ride.

„My friend...", she said and meant it, smiling before she even knew she was doing it. „What brings you here at such an hour?"She noticed his breathing, a trifle quicker than his usual calm, his eyes wandering over her anxiously in his careful manner, as if to measure the state of devastation she was in. He obviously had hurried and, briefly, she wondered how he had come to be here.

_Do not hurt yourself, mylord. The person you are looking for is long riding with the wind..._

„Eowyn..."He shook his head softly, watching her from a distance that seemed unnatural somehow. To her, he had the air of a ghost appearing in her dreams. „Why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?" The softest of frowns entered his face.

She broke contact with his eyes, looking back over the vast plains to the fields she could not see, to a world she seemed to have left.

And yet, part of the world had come to her and was asking for attention. Forced to give her thoughts a form, she felt torn. For each of the reasons she could have said sounded but half of the truth.

"Do you not know?" Evasion, the eldest of weapons. And yet, there was hope that somewhere in his answer there was the solution of her own question.

He took a step closer, still giving her room to breathe. Hardly did she care.

"Two reasons there may be, but which is true, I do not know."

She shook her head, feeling vaguely annoyed and wondered why it mattered. She turned her head to look at him sharply, looking for the answer she had wished to hear in his demeanor, but his calm smile did not betray his thoughts.

"I do not wish to play at riddles. Speak plainer!"

For an instant, his eyes met hers, and he nodded in acknowledgement, leaving her to wonder, whether he had said the 'Very well' she thought to have heared.

"Then if you will have it so, lady, you do not go, because only your brother called you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy. Or because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them." She closed her eyes at his voice, at his words, as the wind took them up and did not show her the grace to wipe them away. For he was not wrong. He had never been.

_Let me go, Faramir. Leave me be..._

_I do not dare the step you wish me to take..._

"Eowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?"

There was a tone in his voice, that bordered on despair, some frantic fear that he failed to hide completely. She doubted, she would have ever heared it, if she had not known him so well. But still she hung in the air, a toy to the wind like the banners were, a ghost, nothing more.

Still, there was a hint of pride, a remnant of the horses' thunder that echoed in the mountains, a last heritage of the proud daughter of Rohan.

"I wished to be loved by another", she admitted softly. "But I desire no man's pity."

From the corner of her eye, she could see a weary smile on his face.

„That I know", he said, almost as if in pain, then fell silent himself and stood next to her, looking out to the plains as she did. And when he spoke, it was softly, tenderly almost, as if admitting a great fault of his to a secret confident.

"You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, and greatest that now is."

He closed his eyes and passed a weary hand before them, taking a deep breath the reason of which she could not discern. But then, turning back fully to her, his voice gained on strength, his gaze did not falter.

But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me, Eowyn!"

And this she did, drawn by the power of his voice alone. His gaze held hers captive, gently took the reigns of the wild horse she felt to be, not hurting, but still insisting, as he continued to speak, as words came to him as easily as they ever had.

"Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Eowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and you have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Eowyn do you not love me?"

_Hoofbeats coming from afar..._

She trembled at his voice, trembled at the sudden grace of a well reopening, of a power reforging, of the first, tender bloom after bitter frost. Her heart leaped out at him as it would at the illusion called freedom, leaped at the promise of a cage shattered and a ride as free as ever it could be.

_When did I lose them?_

She basked in the thunder of freedom offered and only slowly realized she was not looking at the endless plains but at his eyes, and still, it did not change what she saw. Only dimly she realized the tone of wonder, that had entered his gaze of determination and care, not even linking this to the storm raging inside her as the cage burst into pieces.

When she spoke, her voice trembled in wonder.

"I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun, and behold! The Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor view with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren."

She laughed at the freedom in her words, laughed with the wind and the ride through a blooming forest.

"No longer do I desire to be a queen."

_In stone and marble... _

_Never free..._

_And yet the cage has broken..._

He took a last step towards her, quickly, as if more governed by instinct then by thought alone, and the smile transformed his face, the freedom reaching him as well.

"That is well", he laughed, relief flooding him as a barrier broke he had not even known of. "For I am not a king. Yet I will wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes."

The promise was already in his eyes, and his heart, ever prisoner of his fear, was leaving captivity unguarded. She smiled at the utter relief in his face, shared his wonder of a gift they had not even known that it existed.

"Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor? And would you have your proud folk say of you: 'There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Numenor to choose?'"

Once she spoke she knew, she was not serious. And once he laughed, shaking his head at her words and nodding with every gesture as he stepped closer, winter turned to spring and blood to life.

"I would."

Unspokenly a question was both raised and answered as the Stewart of Gondor leaned over to kiss the White Lady, in a tumble of joy and unfamiliar freedom, consumed and taken by the revelation of flowers in winter.

_And so let me fly, forever_

_So I'll ever, ever come home_


End file.
